The Dark Shadow

Harry moodily slouched around the garden, wishing he was anywhere but here. Even though he'd been treated reasonably well this summer, the highlight being given two slices of cake once for pudding, he hated it as much as ever in Privet Drive. The suppressed loathing of Vernon Dursley was almost as bad as the openly paraded loathing. Every time Harry said even the slightest thing he saw Vernon clench and unclench his hands, as if longing to place them around Harry's neck and squeeze hard. It didn't really make it easy to have a conversation with him. This, combined with Petunia's refusal to talk to Harry about anything but the bare necessities and Dudley's revolting friends who were constantly invited for lunch and dinner, wasn't exactly Harry's idea of a perfect summer holiday. And he couldn't even call on Lupin or Tonks or anyone else from Grimmauld Place for help, because he wasn't being mistreated. He was just unhappy to be away from his friends, even though it had only been a week so far.

And he was still haunted by what had happened at the end of last year. On most days he just hung around the garden, idly watching clouds and listening to the birds, conscious all the time of the huge knot of emotion in his chest that he couldn't forget. A couple of times he'd been on the verge of writing a letter to Hermione, Ron or even Ginny, but he'd just sat there staring at the mockingly empty piece of parchment, not capable of putting his feelings into words. How could he explain the grief he was feeling? How could he tell them about the dark, heavy weight of guilt that had settled within him? He was tortured by thoughts of what could have been if he'd have just calmed down for a second and listened to Hermione. Even worse was the memory of Sirius giving him the package that he had stowed into his trunk somewhere and promptly forgotten about. Mostly, Harry tried not to think about it. He didn't always succeed.

The nightmares he had to endure every night were getting worse and worse as well. Harry dreaded going to sleep at night because he would involuntarily dream of Sirius. Most of the time he would just see him gently strolling through the archway with a smile on his face, oblivious of Harry and anything around him. Harry would desperately try to yell a warning but his voice would always be too weak to reach him. He'd try to catch him - to reach out and grab his sleeve - anything to stop him going through the arch and leaving him forever, but it was always too late. The only thing he saw before waking up in a pool of sweat was the black veil, rippling slightly in an invisible breeze.

Harry stood still and stared at the sun, willing it to move faster for the next couple of weeks to end this ordeal quickly. He closed his eyes for a second and felt pain sear through his scar. It was still itching and throbbing at regular intervals, especially in the night, but he hadn't had any new strange dreams or visions. Voldemort probably realized there'd be little chance of Harry being caught out again with the same trick, and was obviously biding his time. Harry ran a finger over his forehead, and tried to think of something else. The pain was building slowly, and Harry felt cold sweat begin to run down his back. His mind was becoming fuzzy, and he stumbled to the bottom of the garden, foolishly trying to hide himself in the laurel bushes. Feverishly he tried to remember what Snape had taught him in Occlumency last year, but he couldn't remember anything. "Think...of.... Sirius..." he mumbled desperately beneath his breath, thinking of what had repelled Voldemort once before.

Suddenly a fresh wave of red-hot pain throbbed through his head, and he groaned in agony. He was only conscious of the searing spasms that swept through his mind. He didn't even hear Petunia's shriek of horror when she saw Harry blindly trampling all over her beloved begonias before he fell to his knees in the damp earth, wishing and begging for it to be over.

And then, suddenly, his head was filled with a terrible sound.

"Harry Potter..." a high, cold voice he knew so well murmured softly, treading nimbly through the layers of his thoughts. "I welcome myself to your mind."

Harry put his hands over his ears and shook his head wildly, trying to shake off this voice, force it out of his head, just make it go away.

"I'm sure you remember me. That's good, and I don't intend for you to forget."

Panicky thoughts floated through his head. He staggered to his feet and started to stumble blindly back to the house, his hands still covering his ears, trying to run away from the cold voice rummaging about in his mind, in his thoughts... An intense wave of nausea shook him, and he fell to his knees again, retching and groaning with horror.

"This is my warning..." Harry heard, and his head almost burst with a pain that it had never before experienced.

Harry screamed.

Out of nowhere, a bright red feather fluttered down from the sky, gleaming enticingly. Through the haze of pain and panic Harry saw his hand automatically reach out and grab it.

He felt a familiar tugging behind his navel and the sensation of being whisked through space in a whirl of colour. Suddenly, he landed on what felt like a marble floor.

"Drink this." A goblet was placed against his lips and he drank, helpless against the numbing pain. He gagged, and slipped through the hands holding him up as his body slowly crumpled to the floor. Stars exploded against his eyelids, and then he knew nothing more.

*******

Harry heard a noise. It was a strange sound, like one he'd once heard in a dream and forgotten. His eyelids felt like they'd been glued together, and he lifted his hand to brush away the sticky residue that covered them. Groggily he raised himself up on his elbows and found himself face to face with Snape. His head ached.

"Decided to wake up, have we, Potter?" Snape sneered.

"Severus." A gently chiding voice. Harry turned his head slowly and saw Albus Dumbledore standing there, smiling faintly at him past his long crooked nose. The familiar blue eyes were twinkling. Fawkes was perched on his shoulder, and as he watched, the phoenix opened his beak and sang just one note that hovered in the air. "That was probably what woke me up," Harry thought.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said. "Can you hear me?"

Harry dumbly nodded assent, feeling unable to speak. Why was he here? What had happened? Why was Snape here? Why had Voldemort entered his mind? At the thought, Harry involuntarily retched again.

"Harry." A cool hand was laid on his forehead. "Sleep." Again a goblet was held to his lips, and again he fell into a dreamless sleep.

*******

The next time Harry awoke he was surrounded by whispering teachers. He caught his name a couple of times and managed to make out the phrases "almost too late to help" and "if it weren't for Dumbledore" from Madam Pomfrey, who was standing nearest to him.

Harry cleared his throat noisily.

"Oh Harry dear, you're awake!" Madam Pomfrey immediately swung round and rushed to his side. "How are you feeling?"

Harry moved his head experimentally. "I feel fine. Really," he added when Madam Pomfrey looked at him disbelievingly through narrowed eyes. He knew how protective she could be and hoped that he could somehow persuade her that he was alright. He dreaded having to stay even longer in the hospital wing, fearing he'd have to drink foul potions and endure being prodded and poked all the time.

"Well, Potter, in that case you're tougher than we all thought," she said, still frowning slightly at him. "When you're ready to get up, Professor Dumbledore would like a word with you in his office. The password would be Nose-Bleed Nougat."

Harry grinned shakily and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He'd just gotten up when he caught a glimpse of his feet. He was horrified to discover that he was wearing pink fluffy slippers with little furry bobbles on the tops and colourful butterflies stitched to the toes. These obviously belonged to a five-year-old girl. "Um, Madam Pomfrey... why am I wearing these?" he asked.

She smiled at the disgusted look on his face. "Those are highly magical healing slippers. Professor Dumbledore will tell you more."

"Can't you, you know, transfigure them into military boots or something?" he asked hopefully.

"Sorry, dear, pink they are and pink they will stay. And they will most definitely stay on your feet, so don't even think of taking them off." Her eyes were twinkling merrily. "Now chop chop, off to the Headmaster."

He grimaced and tentatively moved towards the door, not wanting to draw attention to himself. But when he turned round to close the door he saw Snape following his feet with his dark black eyes and trying to stop a smirk from curling his lips. He wasn't succeeding very well.

Harry flushed and set off for Dumbledore's office, exceptionally glad that it was holidays and that Hogwarts was empty. He imagined walking past Malfoy, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle in these fluffy pink slippers and shuddered with dread.

He wondered what sort of magical properties they had. They had to have some because his feet felt very light and were tingling slightly. Maybe they made you fly or something, he thought. He decided to try it out on the way to Dumbledore's office. Running very fast did nothing; in fact he almost lost them on the way. Not that it would be a bad thing. Taking huge jumps in slow-motion "Chariots of Fire"-style didn't work either. Skipping had no effect at all. He couldn't quite bring himself to dance, but he decided to try walking backwards. He turned round, only to see that Snape was walking a couple of metres behind him looking like Christmas had come early.

"Well, Potter, even though it's a shame to disturb your admirable athletic performance I feel compelled to tell you that you're going in the wrong direction. Professor Dumbledore is in the staff room at the moment," Snape said, his black eyes glittering. "And maybe you should simply try walking, even if it might be beneath the standards of the Boy Who Lived," he added, turning on his heel and sweeping off with his black cloak swishing behind him.

Harry closed his eyes in mortification, wishing himself anywhere but here. If there was one thing in his life he had never dreamed would happen it was putting on a one man show for Snape in pink slippers. At least he hadn't danced, he thought, trying to console himself. Sighing bitterly, he set out for the staff room.

*******

"Welcome back to Hogwarts, Harry," Dumbledore said, beaming happily at him. "Lemon drop?" he offered, holding a bag towards him.

"Um, no thanks, Professor." Harry smiled uncertainly.

Dumbledore shrugged, peered into the bag and selected one for himself. "Please sit down, Harry."

Harry slowly lowered himself into a chintzy armchair opposite Dumbledore and stared around the staff room. Literally hundreds of portraits were hanging on the walls, and the coffee table was overflowing with pieces of parchment, mugs and quills. It was a very homely room, but it was strange to be talking to Dumbledore anywhere else than in his office. He wondered vaguely why they were meeting here.

"So, Harry. How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling fine, Professor," Harry said.

"Good good, then everything went to plan. Now, I have a few things to tell you, some of them urgent and some of them less. In case you were wondering, all your belongings, including your owl, have been brought to Hogwarts by Dobby. I gave him permission to go and fetch it all, and apart from briefly scaring your admirable cousin Dudley, completely accidentally I'm sure, everything went to plan. You'll find it all in your dormitory. Your broom is of course yours again and I daresay nobody will stop you if you'd like to start practicing for the new Quidditch season. Minerva will be especially delighted." Dumbledore smiled fondly over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Now for the more serious news. Have you any idea what happened three weeks ago?"

"Three... three weeks ago?" Harry said, astonished, his mind reeling. "I... I slept for three weeks?"

"I'm afraid that you've been in a magical coma since that Saturday. It was the only thing that would give you the time you needed to heal, as well as block your mind to certain intruders. Now, I assume you know who entered your mind briefly?"

Harry nodded. "But Professor, what happened? What was the feather?" Harry's mind still felt quite fuzzy, like a bunch of cotton wool. No wonder really, he thought, if he'd been sleeping for three weeks.

"Well, Harry, even though I hoped nothing would happen, I had to assume that Voldemort would try to enter your mind again this summer. I don't believe he has an ulterior motive, but Voldemort himself relishes being cruel. It is my belief that he views it as a vicious game. He's bent on revenge, Harry, and I was anxious as to what he was planning. So I cast a complex charm around you that would inform me when someone started... tampering, one could say, with your mind. When this happened, a Portkey would appear that would take you here so that we could help. What I did not expect was that Voldemort would manage to enter your mind with such ease, or to such magnitude. I originally meant to send you home again immediately, after making sure that everything was alright and maybe casting another charm around you, but such was the damage that you are now staying here. Had Severus not managed to concoct the needed, highly complicated, Mind Restorative Draft immediately you might have never been the same again. Your mind would have been ripped to shreds, your self lost forever. The damage was so severe I doubt you would have even recognized your friends."

Harry slumped in his seat and examined his fingernails. He felt ashamed of himself.

"No no, you mistake me. I did not mean to reprimand you. No fault lies with you. I must assume that when he possessed you briefly it allowed him to make acquaintance with your mind. And so it is easy for him to peruse it at will. Either that or he used spell or curse of some kind to possess you not bodily, but only through the mind. Which brings me to the slippers."

Harry started, astonished. What did the slippers have to do with Voldemort knowing his mind?

"These slippers have webs of elvish enchantment woven into them which create a protective bubble around the mind of the wearer and so protect them against any form of mind magic. They are extraordinarily effective, and I might add, equally expensive." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at him over the rim of his coffee cup. "While you are wearing these slippers Voldemort cannot enter your mind and so can do you no harm. A number of teachers, including myself, will help you train your mind and thoughts and teach you a number of useful spells during the next week before school, and if you accomplish enough you might be able to take the slippers off by the time the term starts."

Harry immediately knew that he would train as hard as humanly possible if it meant not having to wear the slippers around school. He couldn't bear the thought of walking through the Great Hall at the feast with them on.

"Um, Professor Dumbledore? Do these shoes have any side-effects other than protecting me?" Harry asked, a bit suspiciously, remembering the tingling.

"Well, you might just find yourself acting a bit... strangely, but don't worry. Since they are made by female elves, as only female elves have the magical talent for enchantments such as these, I daresay you will... get in touch with your feminine side a bit for the next few days," Dumbledore said, smiling serenely.

"WHAT?" Harry yelled.

"I always find I can sing most delightfully when I have them on. Now Harry, if you have any questions you can find me either here or in my office, that is if I'm in Hogwarts at the time. Otherwise I believe your owl will find me. Upstairs in your room you'll find a timetable of sorts for next week. I will see you again on Monday. Now, are you sure you don't want a lemon drop?"

Harry shook his head dumbly, still horrified.

"In that case, please excuse me. I have a number of owls from Cornelius waiting for me on my desk to which I regretfully still have to respond."

Dumbledore smiled pleasantly again and popped the last lemon drop in his mouth. He then moved swiftly to the door leaving Harry sitting there, thunderstruck. He couldn't believe it. Getting in touch with his feminine side? Pink slippers for a week? Extra lessons, some of them presumably with Snape? He almost wished he was back at Privet Drive.

*******

In the evening Harry sat slumped in the common room in front of a fire that was hissing and crackling merrily. Someone had bewitched it to emit a cool breeze instead of heat, and it made quite a difference to the stuffiness of his room back at Privet Drive. He was exceedingly glad to be in Hogwarts again, but somehow he still felt depressed. For one thing, Snape had saved his life, and Harry didn't know what to make of it. He dreaded the gloating that would surely follow. "If he mentions Sirius just once though, or tells me that I'm lucky I didn't die like him, I'll kill him," Harry thought grimly.

The first thing he'd done was go to the library and look through all the Daily Prophets there that had been printed during the last three weeks. He was desperate for news, but apart from a number of rubbishy articles on what Fudge was doing to capture Voldemort there was nothing. "The only thing Fudge is capable of anyway is writing letters to Dumbledore, pleading for help," Harry thought bitterly. There was no mention of the Order anywhere, which Harry presumed was Fudge's attempt to still pretend that he alone was managing to control the whole situation. Nobody had yet been hurt though, not by Death Eaters nor by Dementors, which was rather strange. Harry had presumed he'd open the pages of the newspaper only to find one bloodbath after another.

A piece of parchment was in front of him and he had his quill in his hand. The thing was, he didn't really know what to write, or to whom. He'd already sent letters off to both Hermione and Ron, telling them what had happened and asking them for news on what the Order was doing, but he felt like writing more.

Almost absent-mindedly he dipped his quill into his inkpot and wrote-

Dear Sirius

-on the top of the parchment.

Harry hesitated. This was crazy. Were the slippers affecting him? He didn't know.

I wish you were here; there are so many things to tell you. Maybe you can read this somehow. Can you?

Harry leaned back in his chair, his heart beating fast, and looked around the common room. He waited for a couple of minutes and when nothing happened he picked up the quill again.

I wish I knew how to get in touch with you. If it's even possible.

Harry stopped writing and put the quill down. He covered his face with his hands and sat there for quite some time, just trying not to think.

When he looked up he saw a new sentence freshly written on the parchment, the wet ink glistening in the candlelight.

Harry. It's me, Sirius.